CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
How could the prince be put into such a position? And why should I be involved?
More than anything, I had planned on avoiding him when he returned to the Capitol. My biggest fear had been of seeing his self-importance from time abroad, gloating about his new skills, possibly with a new lady on his arm.
I bit my cheek.
I nodded to the guards, meeting Anna at the palace doors so I could be allowed in. Her smile faltered at the sight of me.
“Are you alright, Lyra?”
I nodded, jaw clenched. “I have a letter to deliver.” On the way to the palace, guilt had gnawed at me until I’d stopped and added a final, foolish warning to the bottom about my latest premonition.
Not that he’d take me seriously. But I had to try.
Her eyes dropped to my hands, her expression morphing into disbelief. “I thought you were over Prince Thomas.”
“I am,” I lied. “But I need to tell him something vital. Can I meet you in your room in a few minutes?”
“Of course,” she said, her brow furrowed. I left her behind, walking down the stairs in a daze, knocking on Mrs. Calloway’s door.
Her eyes widened when she saw me. “Lyra, what a surprise!”
“I have a favor to ask. It concerns Prince Thomas.”
Her lips twitched. “Oh?”
“I… I have a letter for him.”
She pursed her lips. “And what prompted such familiarity with a prince?”
I opened my mouth, unsure of where to begin.
“Ordinarily, the answer would be an immediate no. However,” she said, rifling through an oak cabinet in the corner, “these seem to indicate that your communication would be welcome.”
She pulled out two stacks of folded letters, each bound with twine, and placed them on her desk.
I gaped. “What are these?”
“They are letters from His Highness.”
My heart raced. “What are they doing here? How old are they?”
She twisted her mouth. “At the end of the prince’s visit home last Snowfest, the butler handed me a letter from Prince Thomas to pass on to you.
You had already left by then, and I tucked it away.
I’d planned to have Anna bring it to you on one of her monthly visits, yet my memory of the letter slipped. ”
My eyes darted to the piles, which were significantly more than a single letter.
“A few weeks after, another arrived. Then another. Soon, they were coming weekly. As the pile kept rising, I felt more hesitant to ask Anna to pass them on. I was worried they were confidential, and shouldn’t leave palace grounds.
I certainly didn’t trust Anna not to read them—she snoops through even my mail. ”
On each letter, a light green T entwined with vines was stamped into the wax seal, unbroken.
“And so I have waited for your return. I apologize for the intense delay. I have to say, I haven’t quite known what to make of all of this.
” She gave me a serious look. “There is a more important matter, a more nuanced reason why I held these back. When my girls fall in love with the men upstairs, when they blush at their winks and style their hair in hopes of getting a second glance, the job I pay them to do goes undone. But more importantly…” she reached out, taking my hand.
I stiffened. “They’re left incredibly vulnerable.
Who are we to say no to princes and kings?
Who are we to defy what they desire? I now realize I handled Ella poorly, and for that, I hope to one day apologize.
But I didn’t want to make the same mistake with you.
” Her grip on my fingers tightened. “Has he acted inappropriately with you, Lyra? Has he pressured or manipulated you into some sort of relationship, making promises he cannot keep?”
I was stunned. Here was Mrs. Calloway, the woman who had helped ruin my best friend’s life. Suddenly, sympathy filled me for the tension, the ethical quandaries, she’d been forced to face these past few years.
“Nothing of the sort,” I said. “We are… were just friends. And he’s always been a gentleman.”
Her eyes narrowed, then darted to the letters piled up, tied with twine. “Be careful,” she warned, handing them over. “And know that you—or Ella—can always come to me if it ever leans otherwise. I care little for spoiled princes and their whims.”
I smiled, knowing I’d once shared her opinion wholeheartedly. “Thank you, Mrs. Calloway.”
She harrumphed with a nod. “Now scatter. I have need of the office.”
“Yes ma’am,” I said with a smothered grin, taking piles of letters in my arms and drifting toward a dim corner to read them.
My heart hammered inside my chest.
One a week. For over a year.
I tried to count them, but my hands were too full. I sat cross-legged in the hall and untied the first bundle.
And, as much I hated to admit it, I picked up the first letter and breathed in its scent. The smallest hint of ink, of crisp pages, of him…
I sank back against the wall behind me. I imagined his coat around me, his body pressed to mine… and sighed.
I broke the seal, my eyes devouring the words letter by letter.
SnowFest 12
Dearest Dear Lyranore,
I am writing to you from the University of Junira, drowning amidst classwork and looming deadlines, and yet my thoughts are of you.
I hope this letter finds you well. I hope it finds you at all. That you do not crumble and toss it as I fear you might. I pray that I have not stretched taut the loose tie that binds us, that it has not snapped altogether.
How is David? Do you still wear his ribbon? Have you replaced it with a ring?
Or—and I must reveal my hand here—or, as I hope, have you remained in your freedom?
I clenched my jaw. Of course he doubted my resolve. Of course.
I scanned the end, a mere summary of his learnings, as informative and guarded as his conversations. I snapped the seal of the next letter.
SpringFest, 44
Dear Lyranore,
I must ask—do you still walk the palace grounds in moonlight, the stars kissing your skin and black hair as you fade into the beauty of night itself?
But I forget, you have quit the palace life.
I hope this letter finds you.
I pray for you, for your ambitions to find a home that will care for them as they deserve.
That your new master shows you what I could not, what I did not know.
I realize now, after replaying our conversation again and again, that I tend to act as if I know more than I do.
You said it yourself, that I chose the fate of our friendship for you.
Your voice was silenced by my own deafening fears.
For that, I will never be remorseful enough. I fear… I cannot write it now, please excuse me.
Once more, the letter switched to an analysis of Junira’s magical currency among the noble classes, which I promptly ignored, pulling out a few more from the pile to scan. My eyes were glued to one particular letter from the summer at the start of his internship’s first expedition.
SunFest, 17
Dearest Lyra,
We are trekking across Pa’abo’s deserts. At night, I lie on the cool sand, and I long for nothing more than to sit next to you at the pond.
I think of that night, the night you conjured a water ladder higher than mine, every time I close my eyes and sink into the darkness. Sometimes, it pursues me into my dreams.
I have been too harsh, I admit. I have been too harsh about a lot of things in my life.
But of course, this is an area you know better than I.
You made it clear to me that night that I was the very same pompous, arrogant prince you feared I was.
And now, I lie on the sands, no roof above my head as mosquitos buzz in my ears, days-old sweat creating the most dreadful itch, and I see.
I look out into the vast galaxies above me, the moon that once bathed you in its light, the stars that were hung to glint off your hips and sing your praises—and I see.
I am small. I always have been. But I never wanted to believe it.
My eldest sister passed away when I was young.
She took ill with the plague, and when no physician could cure it, I vowed to my father that by allowing me space and funding to pursue my studies, I would solve the mystery she left behind.
I suppose the only flaw in my reasoning was that there was no guarantee I would find it.
The result was that I skipped many social events, isolating myself, poring over books…
What I am trying to say, my dearest Lyra, is that I am not the most socially articulate person. For years, I preferred books and spells to people, to my own detriment. Words have always come more easily to me through the mask of ink than through my own voice.
That’s why I was so surprised when I met you.
Perhaps it was because the sun hid itself from our conversations, and so I felt my imperfections could be hidden from you—you, who were so bold and brash, who was like the fire to my icy exterior.
But I was a fool. Those imperfections were never hidden at all.
They became only splinters that tore into the heart of someone I had grown to love.
When we parted, I told you that your ribbon, your tower of water that lingered over us was why I left, why I couldn’t pursue a life with you.
It was a cowardly lie.
It was because I was afraid. Afraid that you would see me in the sun and change your mind, join me in my days and recognize the arrogant snob I truly was, perceive my ignorance, cringe at my awkward tendencies.
And your response left me wide open.
You knew them already. And you’d wanted me, anyway.
I… I will end here. I have little more to say on the matter without falling into self-pity, which shall not help my princely image.
I hope this letter finds you.
Yours,
Thom